


Red Diamond, Black Silk

by Hydrasnixed



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M, First Meetings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-03
Updated: 2020-01-03
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:34:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22104901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hydrasnixed/pseuds/Hydrasnixed
Summary: A meeting of sorts. There's snow and ice but no Christmas joy.
Relationships: Clint Barton/Natasha Romanov
Comments: 2
Kudos: 3





	Red Diamond, Black Silk

She was a bleeding, pathetic mess. More blood and bruises than unmarked flesh... staring at him with eyes that were almost swollen shut. Clint Barton stepped closer and she dropped into a crouch, ready to attack. Her hands were tied behind her back but somehow he didn't think that would slow her down at all. That was until she lunged towards him, slipped in a pool of her own blood and landed on her ass. 

Clint shouldered his bow and pulled out his knife. The woman tried to scramble backwards but her feet couldn't find purchase on the slippery floor. 

'Hey... hey... it's okay, it's okay... I'm just going to cut these off you.'

He slowly moved behind her, sliding his knife through the plastic binders. She was motionless for the briefest of moments, just long enough for him to set her free and then she swung for him. 

Weak from blood loss, she still managed to land a punch that almost broke his nose. The next thing Clint knew her thighs were wrapped around his neck... and not in a good way. She tried to twist and crush his windpipe but the sudden movement was too much for her. He managed to catch her battered body before it hit the ground. 

An alarm sounded deep within the building, quickly followed by the sound of boots slapping on concrete. 

'Shit.'

This whole mission was completely fucked. Clint slung the woman's unconscious body over his shoulder and started to run. 

Coulson, Fury, Hill... they would all kick seven kinds of shit out of him for this. His boots skidded on the snow outside and he almost dropped her. This wasn't supposed to be a rescue mission. Intelligence gathering. A straightforward in and out... back home for breakfast. But the data he had come to get was still languishing on a hard drive somewhere wrapped in layers of concrete that he had lost the chance to unravel.

Bullets snapped at his heels, sending up a sharp spray of ice crystals. He started weaving back and forth... if he could just make it as far as the trees...

The next thing Clint knew he was face down in the snow, spitting dead leaves out of his mouth, trapped under the woman's weight. The bullet had struck kevlar but it still hurt like hell. She stirred, crying out as as he shoved her away, jerking her damaged body. He was determined to save his own skin. That was what he was supposed to do, right? She was as good as dead anyway. Probably past saving. A bullet seared his cheek. Another creased his thigh.

And then the woman moved. 

She snatched his gun, aiming and firing in a single smooth movement that was almost beautiful to behold. His hands automatically reached for his bow. The two of them started shooting in tandem, picking off the men who were pursuing them. They kept firing until the snow turned red. 

The gun slipped from her fingers. 

Clint moved to examine the bodies, giving each one a kick just to make sure they weren't faking, reclaiming his arrows where he could. He stripped the coat from one of the men and wrapped it around her shoulders. 

'Come on,' he said. 'They won't be the last.'

She tried to stand but was swaying on her feet. Grabbing her hand, Clint pulled her stumbling behind him into the trees. 

The snowfall faded to the lightest dusting under the thick canopy. Clint felt himself breathe more easily as their footprints faded but he still forced them onwards... right up to the point where she sat down mid-stride. A spot of blood splashed down and she watched it fall. 

'Let's hope they don't have dogs,' Clint said. 

'You should have left me,' she said. 

Her voice had a rough quality that sent a flash of warmth down his spine. There was the barest hint of an accent which vanished when she spoke again.

'Go.'

'Not a chance. Can you walk?'

She shook her head. Couldn't or wouldn't? Clint wasn't sure. He hauled her up, pulling her arms across his shoulders. 

'It's this way,' he said. 

>>>>>>

She passed out again half a mile from the safe house. Almost at the end of his strength, Clint dragged her through the snow that was starting to swirl around them, at the mercy of the fierce, freezing wind. For once, Clint was glad for the change in the weather. The freshly fallen snow would make them that much more difficult to track. 

The safehouse was little more than a box; four wooden walls and a flat roof. Set back from any recognisable path, a thick wall of vegetation shielded it from casual view. Clint had to put his shoulder to the door to force it open. The warped wood shrieked in protest. He kicked the door shut behind them. 

No one had been there since he'd left eighteen hours earlier. His bedroll was still laid out in one corner. The pack with food, a change of clothes and spare ammunition was in another. A quiver full of arrows... home away from home. He just wished he'd thought to stock up on dry wood. There was nothing more than a pile of ashes to show where he'd cooked his last hot meal. 

Clint set the woman down on the nest of blankets. She curled in on herself, turning her back to him.

'Hey... hey... I just need to take a look at you,' he said. 

She didn't seem to hear him. The light was fading fast and he turned her over as gently as he could and peeled the coat away from her. There didn't seem to be an inch of her that wasn't covered in blood. Now he had the time to examine her more closely he could see the network of minor cuts that traced her body. Nothing deep enough to kill her but some sadistic bastard had definitely been slicing her up her to get his kicks. The worst... A nasty looking gash on her shoulder extending to the top of her breast and another on her thigh. Both were slowly weeping. Clint choked down the bile in his mouth. It was torture. Pure and simple

Clint reached for his med. kit and started to wipe away the blood as gently as he could. The sting of the antiseptic was enough to startle her back to consciousness. He was forced to dance backwards, out of range of her swinging fists. 

'You have got to stop doing that,' he muttered. 

He caught her hands in his, stained red with her blood. 

'You're going to need some stitches, okay? Okay?'

She nodded. He dug the spare clothes out of his pack and handed them to her.

'Can you take that off for me?' 

Clint turned his back whilst she slipped her catsuit down. 

'I'm ready,' she said. 

She was holding his sweatshirt in front of her, giving him access to the wound. 

'Okay... lets do this.'

Clint dug the needle into her flesh, trying to ignore the way she bit her lip in an effort to distract herself from the pain. He knitted the skin together, making his stitches as small and as neat as he could. 

'How does that feel?' he asked as he tied off the last one. 

'Better,' she said.

'I've had practice.'

A thin silver line on one calf, another that stretched across his abs. Scars that he didn't expect she'd ever see. 

'I've... uh... I've gotta..'

He pointed at her thigh. The sweater was big enough to cover a fair proportion of her body and she only had to raise it a little. Clint tried to focus on his work and not on the smooth soft skin that he was defacing. He gave the wound one last swipe with the antiseptic.

'Okay, you're done.'

'What about you?' she asked. 

His back hurt from where the bullet had struck. His arms and shoulders ached from carrying her. A drop of blood tracked it's way down one cheek. He had no idea what had opened the cut above his eye. 

'I'm fine,' Clint told her. 'You should get some sleep.' 

He busied himself stowing his gear away whilst she dressed herself in his clothes. When he next checked, she had turned away from him again, the blankets gathered around her. Her body was shaking. Maybe it was the blood loss, maybe it was something else... it was too damn cold in here. Clint picked up his coat and stepped out into the storm. He could smell her in the fabric. Sweat, blood and three-day old perfume. Yes, there were a hundred reasons why he should have left her behind but he was damned if he could remember any of them right now. 

The snow was already deep enough to reach his ankles. Head down, shoulders hunched, he forced his way against the wind and snow smacking into his face. The cut on his face burned. There was a stack of wood out back and Clint gathered as much as he could before seeking shelter again. The woman hadn't moved. He was tempted to abandon the manly pursuit of making fire and just curl himself around her for the duration of the storm. 

He resisted the urge and set the kindling in the grate. Clint felt a surge of pride when the flames finally flickered into life. It didn't make much difference to the temperature in the cabin, but he was able to melt enough ice make himself some coffee... and fool himself that the trembling in his limbs was merely a symptom of deprivation of his favourite stimulant. 

The darkness outside was smothering. Clint stared into his pathetic excuse for a fire, the burn of adrenalin fading fast. He wanted... needed to sleep. If he'd been alone he wouldn't have hesitated. If he'd been alone he would have finished the damn job and wouldn't have had potential hostile stalking him. He knew they'd have to move on come morning and get as far away from here as they could. 

His extraction point was almost thirty miles away. Clint had been planning to make the trip in one shot, hiking through the night if he had to. Now he would have an injured woman in tow. He found his gaze drawn to her... fragile, almost child-like in the firelight. Her swollen lips parted as she moaned softly in her sleep. Clint tried to ignore the tiny, frightened sounds but then she started clawing at the blankets, fighting herself free. The moans turned to screams.

'Hey... hey...'

He tried to be gentle but she didn't seem to be aware that anyone was with her. Trapped in her dreams, her eyes snapped open. She stared down at his sweatshirt, ripping the alien fabric, tearing at her own skin. 

'Stop... stop...'

Clint caught her hands. 

'You're okay, you're safe.'

Her bruised green eyes didn't seem to understand. 

'I'm not going to hurt you.'

He couldn't tell whether she heard him or not. Clint drew his knife and wrapped her hand around the hilt. 

'Look... why don't you take this... just in case.'

And suddenly she seemed to be listening. She ran a finger along the blade and a drop of bright red blood appeared and tracked its way down her wrist. 

'Good enough,' she said. 

That hint of an accent again. Clint wanted to keep her talking, just so he could watch the way her lips wrapped themselves around vowels and consonants. But she shrank away from him, holding the knife close in a tragic parody of a lover's embrace. 

Clint poured himself some more coffee. He had more reason than ever to stay awake now. If he didn't then he probably wouldn't wake up at all. The air in the cabin had warmed enough to make him drowsy... even with the extra caffeine. He got to his feet, pacing back and forth, stopping by the window and staring out at the spiralling snow. The woman's reflection was clear in the glass. Her eyes were still open and she was staring right at him. 

'You know,' he said. 'If we're going to get out of here alive then you're going to have to trust me.'

She didn't respond. Clint shoved an energy bar into his mouth. It tasted like dust.

>>>>>

The sun rose crisp and clear against the bluest of skies. A perfect winter day but Clint felt like shit. He hadn't slept and his nerves were buzzing with the caffeine overload. His muscles were stiff with cold, sending flashes of pain up his spine as he tried to stretch. Playing hero wasn't what is was cracked up to be.

Clint nudged the pile of blankets with his toe. Her head appeared first, hair a tangled mass of matted blood. The knife was still clasped in her hand. 

'Good morning to you too,' he said.

She started coughing and Clint handed her a cup of melted ice. 

'We should get out of here. Do you think you're up for a walk?'

'Yes.'

Clint turned his back while she wriggled back into her catsuit. She pulled his sweatshirt back over her head when she was done. The knife, he noticed, was strapped to her thigh. Clint doused the fire. The blankets, food and med. kit were all shoved into a backpack and he settled quiver of arrows on his back, another against his hip. 

'Ready?' he asked. She nodded. 

They stepped outside together, boots crunching on the crusted snow. Clint slipped on a pair of dark glasses, squinting against the brightness of the sky. 

'This way,' he said, setting off into the trees. 

'You sure?' She asked. 

Clint grinned at her. 

'I never miss.'

They made good time at first. She was able to match him stride for stride. Clint kept his eyes on the horizon. The forest was silent. Nothing was moving. 

There were tracks, headed in the opposite direction. A deer, maybe? Clint knelt down to examine the footprints more closely. The stride was short, as if the beast had been running from something and there was a flush of pink staining the snow. Clint stood up, not exactly sure what he was looking for. A spark, a flash, a sign that someone was out there watching. His companion seemed equally on edge. The expression on her face, the way she held her body... she was expecting a fight. 

'There,' Clint said. 

He couldn't explain exactly what he'd seen. A movement maybe? Black on black. 

She narrowed eyes that were still bruised and swollen. Clint knew that she wouldn't see anything. No one ever did. 

'You sure?' she asked. 

'Yeah.'

The crack of a bullet, the explosion of wood half an inch from her head. 

'Shit... come on!' 

He reached for her hand without thinking, surprised when she tangled her fingers with his. She ran beside him. Mirroring him so closely that he wasn't sure which one of them was leading. 

'Now,' she shouted. 

Clint didn't even question her. He sank to one knee, arrow notched to his bow... the aim... the release... all achieved in one smooth moment. He took her hand again and they ran. This time there were no bullets chasing. He couldn't tell how far they went. It might have been a mile. It might have been more. He kept pulling her along until her steps faltered. She sat down in the snow glaring up at him. They weren't anywhere close to where he wanted to be, but the undergrowth was thick and... it was good enough.

'This way,' he told her. 

'We can't stop.'

She struggled to her feet and stumbled on a few steps. Clint caught her before she hit the ground again. 

'Sun's goin' down,' he said. 

The sky was flushed with the first hints of orange as the sun dipped closer to the mountains. It might have been beautiful, if Clint hadn't been constantly scanning the horizon for signs that they weren't alone in this wilderness. Nothing moved. He grabbed her arm, pulling her with him into the deepest part of the undergrowth To her credit, she didn't protest. She followed where he led. 

They made their camp in the smallest of spaces. Clint didn't dare light a fire so their supper consisted of the last of his protein bars.

'Do you need me to check your stitches?' he asked as he tossed the wrapper away. Her mouth quirked and Clint almost thought she smiled. 

'Not on the first date,' she said. 

'Don't get ahead of yourself.'

The sky was darkening with more than the oncoming night. It was going to snow again. 

'Do you think they're still looking for us?' she asked. 

'Me... probably not. You... definitely.'

Clint pulled out his canteen, fumbling with the cap, letting the water splash over his fingers. He wasn't wearing gloves and he suddenly realised that his skin was blue. He flexed his hands, trying to work the life back into them. 

'Here.' 

He handed the canteen over and she took a few, short sips of the melted snow. 

There wasn't much to keep them warm. Clint lay one of the blankets on the ground and she crawled onto it. He hauled his butt next to her and drew the second one over them both. He set his back against a tree, tucking his hands into his armpits, his bow resting across his lap. She curled inwards beside him, her chest flush against his thigh. Clint eased himself away but she was persistent in seeking his warmth. Somehow her cold nose managed to find the tiniest of gaps between his coat and his pants, resting on skin that suddenly felt overheated. He wished he could get up and walk around but the trees were wound too tightly. There was barely room for the two of them and damn it but his hands were cold. He slipped further down under the blanket and waited for the sun to come up. 

>>>>>

'How long?' she said. 

Snow was still falling. Clint could see the flakes more clearly now. The sun was rising somewhere behind the thick clouds. He shook the ice from the blankets before stuffing them into the backpack. 

'What?'

'Since you slept?'

Clint didn't answer. 

'You were awake last night and the one before.'

'And the one before that... I mean if you're going to be keeping score.'

'Do you even know where we are?'

'Yes.'

She was talking to him, which had to be a good sign. And she was healing. The bruises fading. No infection... at least he didn't think so. She'd been close enough to him in the night that he'd have known if she'd been running a fever. 

'Are you going to keep it a secret?' she pushed. 

'You don't have to come with.'

It had been twenty four hours since she'd last tried to attack him but Clint still didn't trust her. Not enough to reveal the location of the safe house that he was headed for. 

'There's a place I know. Should be about five clicks from here,' he said. 

'Does it have running water?

'Yes.'

'Hot?'

'Debatable.'

'Good enough.'

Clint took the lead again. She was definitely stronger today. More alert. At least one of them was. 

He didn't want to admit that he was struggling. Loosing it. Placing his feet very carefully to avoid falling on his face. She still had his knife and the last place he wanted it to end up was between his shoulder blades. 

'You could tell me your name,' he said. 

She looked at him. 

'You first.'

'Clint.'

'As in Eastwood?'

'Yeah.'

'Natalie.'

There was a hesitation, so slight that most people wouldn't have noticed. She hadn't told him her real name.

'Pleased to meet you, Nat,' he said. 

'No one calls me that.'

A river cut across their path, the water tumbling over rocks too quickly to have frozen. Natalie slipped across the stones like a dancer, her balance perfect. She paused in the middle looking back at him, one leg raised to take the next step. Position held effortlessly, he could have sworn she was pointing her toe. Framed by the snow and the dark pines, hair aflame, she took his breath away. Damn it but she was beautiful. 

The momentary distraction was enough for him to stumble slightly. His tired legs would no longer work to save him. He twisted and something in his knee gave out, dumping him into the water. Clint lay there for a moment, letting the icy water whirl around him. A hand appeared in front of him and Clint let himself grab it. She was far stronger than he expected. So much so that he figured she could have carried him if necessary. Her smirk had been replaced by a fully fledged grin. 

'Impressive,' she said. 

'We can't all be fairy twinkle toes.'

If he'd been only slightly less exhausted, he would have been tempted to show off his standing back flip but this wasn't the place for circus tricks. He seemed to have lost the sure-footedness and dexterity that served him so well running across rooftops. Clint pushed his way through the tumbling liquid. No grace. No finesse. When he reached the other side he bent over and spat on the ground. His chest felt like it was on fire. 

'Five clicks?' Natalie said. 

'Shut up.'

They followed the river down through the valley. The snow was thicker here, driven by the biting wind. Clint watched the sky, knowing that the sun was already as high as it was going to get. He didn't want to spend another night out here. They had water, but their last meal had been over twelve hours ago. Clint started walking with an arrow notched to his bow, just in case he spotted something he could shoot and eat. He almost cried when they finally lurched onto the road. A plough must have been through at some point, and the snow was piled high either side, the surface was little more than compacted ice. 

As soon as Clint's boots hit the hard surface, he knew that the fall into the river had screwed with more than his dignity. Every step sent a flash of pain through his left knee. Now it was Natalie's turn to slow down and match his pace. A rumble in the distance, and Clint could make out headlights pushing through the gloom. He swore. Stone walls reared up either side of them and they had no choice but to clamber over, crouching down behind the uneven surface. He felt Natalie's hand slip into his. She tugged gently and he followed her lead, burying himself in the bank of snow. The vehicle crunched past. 

They waited for silence.

Clint was now colder and wetter than he'd ever been in his life. He rested a hand on her thigh, giving her the signal that they should move on. Her soft exhale surprised him. When he pulled his hand away it was covered in blood. 

'Why didn't you say something?'

'It's fine.'

'Let me...'

She slapped his hand away. 

'We should go.'

She was probably right. This wasn't the time or place to make running repairs. They stepped back onto the road, keeping to the edges where the snow was still soft and pliable. Clint was favouring his left knee, Natalie her right leg. Between them they managed to limp into a place that was barely a village. A pub, a shop, a church and a row of houses lined a single street. Clint steered them towards the pub, entering through the back door where a 'No Vacancies' sign was clearly displayed. 

The lobby smelt of stale coffee and a hundred fried breakfasts. 

'Hey Morag,' Clint said to the woman behind the desk. She raised her head. 

'Mr. Barton, how lovely to see you again.'

She had to be in her late sixties. Blonde hair fading to grey scraped back into a neat bun. A pair of glasses perched on her nose making her look more like a librarian than a landlady. 

'And this is?' she asked.

'Mrs. Barton.'

Clint took hold of Natalie's hand, hoping that she wouldn't break his wrist. Morag stared at them over her glasses for a long moment. 

'Of course it is,' she said. 'Room four. You know the way.'

She handed Clint a key. 

It was small. Two narrow beds, a closet and en suite bathroom. Clint was past caring where he slept. A pile of rocks would seem comfortable right now. Natalie open the closet, rifling through the clean clothes that were stacked neatly on the shelves. There were boxes of ammunition, medical supplies and even a quiver full of arrows. Morag must have known he was coming. 

He let Nat take the first shower. Clint sat on one of the beds listening to the groan and hiss of the ancient pipes. 

When she finally emerged, swathed in a white towel, Clint could see the full extent of the bruises that stood out on her pale skin. He was surprised, once again, that she was still standing. 

'I need to look at those stitches,' he said. 

She sat down, extending her leg towards him. 

'Hold still,' he told her.

At least the cut still looked fairly clean. He examined it carefully, using tweezers to remove the odd piece of grit and dirt that the shower had missed. She swore when he dug the needle in. This wasn't going to be as neat as last time. His hands were shaking too much. 

'So what's the plan?' she asked. 

'Stay put for a couple of days and hope they stop looking for us.'

'Here?'

'It's a good a place as any.'

'Really?' Natalie said. 

'Sure. We'll be fine. Morag knows at least thirty-two ways to kill a man with her bare hands.'

'Maybe we should talk.'

'Why?'

'I only know twenty-eight.'

Somehow Clint didn't think that she was joking. He tied off the last stitch. Her fingers brushed the graze on his cheek. 

'How about you?' she said. 

Clint ignored the question, pulling away from her touch. Three days worth of dirt, blood and sweat wasn't going to make for a good room mate.

'Any hot water left?'

'Maybe.' 

Walking into the bathroom and shutting the door, Clint figured that he'd give her the chance to run if she wanted to. He couldn't think of one good reason why she might stay. 

He shed his clothes, letting them drop to the floor. They weren't much better than trash right now. The water was warm, not hot and he stayed underneath the spray just long enough to wash the worst of the grime from his body. 

The towels were thin with a thousand washings; sandpaper on his skin. He blotted the water from his hair before trying to push it into some kind of style that didn't make him look like an idiot. It refused to do anything but lie flat on his head. He gave up, flinging the towel away as he took the opportunity to check himself out in the mirror. There were a couple of new scratches on his face as well as the graze from the bullet. His chest and stomach were clear but when he turned around he could see a multitude of bruises staining his back and shoulders. His knee was a livid purple. It needed ice. 

Sweats and a t-shirt had been folded neatly on the shelf and Clint pulled the clean clothes on with relish, surrounding himself in a cloud of lilac scented fabric. 

'Want to grab something to eat?' he said when he opened the door. 

There was no reply. Natalie was curled up on one of the beds the mass of her red hair spread across the pillow. Clint let himself smile. He took the quilt off the other bed and tucked it around her before he slipped out of the room.

A plate of sandwiches was waiting for him downstairs along with an ice pack which he wrapped around his knee. He reached for the coffee.

'Who is she?' Morag asked.

She removed the pot from his hand before he could take a gulp and poured him a mug of the bitter, black liquid. 

'No idea,' he said. 

'Clint...'

'I know... Fury's going to kick my ass.'

He shoved a sandwich into his mouth. 

'They would have killed her,' he said.

'Are you sure about that?'

Clint couldn't answer. Morag ruffled his hair.

'When are you going to learn, Barton?'

'Probably... uh... never?

She handed him a scone. It was warm, fresh baked. 

'Get some sleep. I'll see what I can do about moving up the extraction.'

'Have I ever told you how much I love you?'

She glared at him over her glasses. 

'Every damn time.'

>>>>>

A thin sliver of wind had worked it's way through the thick curtains. Clint drew his feet under the blanket, wishing that he'd thought to grab a pair of socks. He was beyond exhausted and a single cup of coffee shouldn't have been enough to keep him awake. True, the bed was hard but he'd slept on worse... far worse. 

The creak of bed springs, a snuffle and Clint remembered that he wasn't alone in the room. She'd been so quiet... so still. Light bled through the ill fitting door, splashing over her features. She was still curled up tight, as if she could never truly relax. Clint could relate to that. A little crease had appeared on her otherwise smooth forehead. She cried out and a tear dribbled it's way down her cheek. He had to force himself not to wipe it away, knowing that as soon as he touched her she'd reach for whatever weapon she had stashed under the mattress.

He wrapped the pillow around his head. Maybe Morag was right and he was just a soft touch begging for a knife in the back. A fool for a pretty face. But Natalie was more than that. Not that she wasn't pretty. She was beautiful... even with the blood and the bruises. There was something else about her, something that Clint trusted deep in his gut. She needed him. 

Another low moan. Another nightmare. Clint untangled himself from the sheets and blankets and crept closer to the other bed. 

'Hey,' he ventured. 

Clint barely touched her, his hand skimming her hair. 

'Don't...'

She gripped his arm. Her fingers leaving bruises. Tears sparkled on whiter than white cheeks. 

'Don't what?'

'Make me go back.'

'Go back? Go back where?'

But her eyes slipped shut. Faced mashed against his chest, she started to snore very gently. He felt a dampness soaking through his t-shirt. At first Clint thought she as crying again, but quickly realised that she was drooling on him. Soft and warm, she held onto him as if he was the most important thing in her world.

And he wanted to stay. 

Dear God he wanted to. 

It would feel so good to close himself off and linger in this place where he was wanted, where he was needed. 

He tried to ease himself away but any movement he made resulted in her holding onto him more tightly. The knuckles on her pale hand were white. Her nails were digging into his flesh, sharp even through the t-shirt that he wore. Clint tried to stroke her hair again, hoping to provide some small measure of comfort, but she jerked her head away. He had to lay there passive beneath her slight weight. Very slowly, he rested one hand on her lower back, anchoring her to him. She softened in his arms and Clint pulled the blanket over both of them. Her warmth was enough to send him to sleep... at least for a little while. 

The pale winter sunlight found him in a cold and empty bed. A strand of red hair on the white pillow. There were a pair of small combat boots lined up neatly beside his so Clint assumed that she hadn't abandoned him completely. His head ached. An unpleasant reminder that he had slept too deeply for too long. Clint found his pants and shoved his feet into his boots. He opened the curtains and noted the thin layer of ice that had formed on the inside of the windows. His hands longed to reach for the bow propped up against the wall but he picked up a gun, tucking it into the waistband of his pants. 

He clutched hard at the handrail as he limped down the stairs. Beaten and bruised, his body could have done with a week at a spa. Or at least a half decent massage. He doubted that Morag would volunteer. 

The kitchen, at least, was warm. Natalie was there, sat hunched up close to the fire, She'd picked the baggiest clothes possible, he noticed, even down to the woolly socks that slouched around her feet. Her hair was pulled back from her face and random strands had escaped the ponytail, curling softly on her neck. 

'Is that coffee?' he asked when he noticed the mug clutched in her hands. 

'Tea,' she said. 

'Where's Morag?'

'Out.'

Clint reached for the coffee, ladling several spoonfuls into the machine before switching it on. He watched the filter drip, drip, drip... Natalie had picked up a book, her lips moving slightly as she scanned the pages. She sipped her tea, seemingly at peace with the world. Clint wished that he felt the same. Something was keeping him on edge but he couldn't work out what. He needed a different perspective. 

The coffee was almost too hot to drink but he swallowed it down anyway. 

'I should go find her,' Clint said. 

Outside the world was just as cold as he remembered. A low mist had descended on the surrounding hills, freezing everything that came into its path. The village was slumbering beneath its blanket. 

Clint had never been a religious man, but that didn't stop him heading for the church. The door was unlocked but the heavy oak protested as he shoved his way inside. Rainbow light leaked through the stained glass windows, falling on the dark wooden pews and the worn velvet kneelers. A crucifix was suspended above the alter, gold gleaming. The figure almost too noble, too serene to be facing any kind of death. And Clint had seen men die that way, strung up on trees, on city walls... He turned his head away, taking a deep breath of air that seemed tainted by wax and incense. He wasn't here to save his soul. Clint knew he was too far gone for any kind of redemption. 

The door to the left of the alter led up into the tower. The steps were old, almost rotten in places. Clint felt his knee twist again as one of the boards shifted beneath him. At the top, the old bells hung. Copper stained, frayed roped held them silent. Clint ducked beneath, working his way out onto the roof. The adrenalin hit as soon as he stepped out into the open. He felt the fog lift from his mind. This was where he needed to be. Up high, where he could see clearly. 

The village was surrounded by mountains on three sides. A single road wound its way through the gap in the hills, disappearing into the mist. Narrowing his eyes, Clint imagined that he could see the path he and Natalie had forged into the valley. 

A single huddled figure shuffled along the street below. Head down, the man didn't look up. They never did.

Clint scanned the horizon again. A speck of black broke through the cloud and hovered for a second before darting away. A movement too precise, too calculated to be natural. Clint swore, hurling himself back down the stairs at a dead run. He pushed the pain, the exhaustion to the back of his mind as he started to calculate their route out of there. 

'Morag!' he yelled as he barrelled through the door. 

Natalie was already on her feet. She didn't say anything as she headed out of the room. Clint couldn't spare the breath to ask where she was going. His chest ached from the cold, the bruises, the strained, twisted muscles. 

The older woman appeared, handing him a set of keys. 

'Truck's got a full tank of gas, food and water for three days,' she said. 

'Extraction?'

'Twelve hours minimum. They'll be monitoring all frequencies. Radio your position when you can.'

Light footsteps on the stairs and Natalie returned, fully dressed, guns strapped to each thigh. She handed Clint his bow and quiver. He slung the quiver across his back, wincing slightly as he pulled the strap tight. 

'Can you drive?' he asked.

'Yes,' Natalie said. She glanced across at Morag and the two women shared a look that he couldn't even begin to understand.

He pressed a kiss to Morag's withered cheek.

'Take care of yourself,' he said.

'I always do.'

>>>>>

They headed to the coast, to the final safe house. 

Clint let Natalie drive while he crouched in the back of the truck, covering their retreat. Arrow to the string, arms and shoulder tensed for the fight that never came. His eyes, constantly scanning their surroundings, were burned raw by the fierce wind. Sharp, focussed... a casual observer would never have realised that he was reaching the end of his strength. But Clint knew. He could feel the slight tremor in the fingers that held the bowstring taut. The way his vision blurred as he blinked away the wind whipped tears. 

The sun dipped lower, kissing the horizon as Clint finally spotted their destination. 

'There,' he shouted, banging on the roof. 

Natalie turned down the narrow track, almost unseating Clint as she manoeuvred around the sharp bend. Rough lumps of ice scattered beneath the tires. 

They left the truck hidden beneath a stand of trees and gathered up their gear to complete the rest of the journey on foot. They headed for the cliffs, walking above the crashing waves. The snow was lighter here as the deep winter blue sky faded to black. The setting sun caught the harsh frost and outlined every blade of grass with red. A landscape bathed in blood.

The cottage overlooked the sea. Grey stone and a thatched roof, it blended into the dark cliffs that rose above. Inside it was nothing more than a bunkhouse. An open room with a fireplace at one end. The row of cots along one wall looked particularly uninviting. One day, Clint hoped, he'd get handed a mission which involved a five star hotel and an on-site spa. He let that little fantasy roam around his brain while he piled logs into the grate. Sun, sand, a warm tropical sea. Natalie in a black bikini... His face flushed in a way it hadn't done since he'd been fifteen. 

She had managed to find a hotplate and was pouring some kind of slop out of a can. It landed in the pan with a squelch. Clint set a match to the kindling and the fire sparked into life. He added a nice restaurant to his mental list.

They ate in silence. Huddled together on one of the cots, waiting for the fire to warm the frigid air.   
Clint started to strip off his coat, his shoulders and arms protesting. He bit back a groan. Natalie looked at him, her eyes narrowed.

'What?' he said.

'You're hurt.'

'Occupational hazard.'

She glanced at his bow.

'What's the pull weight on that thing.'

'Seventy-five.'

'Come here,' she said, indicating the spot in front of her. 

'Why?'

'I can help.'

Curious, he shifted so he was sitting on the floor in front of her.

'Shirt.'

'What about it?'

'Take it off.'

'Not on the first date.'

She stared at him for a long moment. Clint took his shirt off, hunching forward slightly as he felt the flicker of flames on his bare skin. He could see how pale his flesh looked, any sign of a summer tan having long since faded. The muscles on his arms and shoulders stood out, well developed when he compared them to the rest of his body. He made a mental note to spend more time on crunches and less on bicep curls the next time he made it to the gym. And maybe cut down on the pizza.

Tapping him on the shoulder, she whispered,

'Relax.'

It wasn't easy. Clint took a deep breath and closed his eyes. 

Natalie's hands skimmed the surface of his skin before returning to press more firmly. His tired muscles protested, resisting the pressure of her fingers. Clint groaned when she hit a particularly tender spot. His head fell forward and he closed his eyes. God it felt good. Clint couldn't remember the last time someone had taken care of him like this. He lost himself in the rhythmic movement of her hands, the way she seemed able to find every twist and knot. His muscles turned to liquid. The room was warm now, almost too hot. He could feel the beads of sweat scorching his skin. 

'Clint.'

Her voice was a whisper. He didn't want her to stop.

'Do you think you could sleep?' she asked. 

Her hand was stroking the fine the hair at the nape of his neck. A tender gesture that he couldn't help but lean into. If he hadn't been so god damned tired... He let his head rest on her thigh. Yes he could sleep right here but he very much doubted that was what Natalie had meant. 

'C'mon,' she said and helped him to his feet. Her arm was slung about his waist as she guided him towards one of the beds. He let her ease him down onto the mattress and cover him with a blanket. 

'I'll take first watch,' she said.

He caught her hand.

'Wake me in four hours.'

>>>>

"Barton!"

Her shout roused him from the deepest of slumbers. His head was pounding as he grabbed his shirt and pulled it over his head. 

It wasn't four hours. It might have been four minutes... maybe forty. The fire was still burning but the door was open to the velvet black night. Clint could hear the dull thud of a helicopter's approach. He picked up his bow and grabbed a handful of arrows.

She was outside, silhouetted against the starlight. Legs apart, arms locked, she was firing at the approaching chopper. There was a man perched on the skids, semi-automatic raised. The sniper had the range, he had the shot. It only took Clint a fraction of a second to see it all. Another breath and he was shoving Natasha to the ground. He felt the bullet tear into his flesh. 

'Clint!'

Pain. Blood. Pain. Pain.

An arrow to the bow, he stood. The helicopter had already turned to make another pass, floating back across the turbulent sea. It was an impossible shot. Clint grinned, closed his eyes for the briefest of moments and then let fly. He knew the arrow was good, even as he sank to his knees. A flash of white heat and noise... God the noise. He toppled forwards. 

'No... No! Barton stay with me! Stay with me!'

The snow was soft, warm. Red. He dug his hands into the ground. Fingers blooded by the frozen earth. Rolling onto his back he stared up into the clear sky, wondering at the sheer number of stars on display. Small, strong hands pressed on his stomach. Her hair flared in the starlight.

'You're just so damn beautiful,' he said, the words slipping out before he had the chance to stop them.

She grasped his hand moving it to his stomach, covering it with one of her own. Pushing down. Pushing down. 

'Hold on,' she said. 'Please... just...'

He wanted to. Clint was starting to realise that he would do anything to see her smile again. His vision was getting fuzzy around the edges. Her lips were moving. She was talking but not to him...

Clint woke up on the floor of the cottage. The fire was blazing high. His shirt was torn, a rough bandage wrapped around his gut. Someone was shouting. Natalie had his radio.

'Listen to me, damn it! It doesn't matter who I am. Your man is down. He needs emergency evacuation now!'

He watched as she plunged a knife into her leg, tearing out his careful stitches. Digging, digging... She dropped something to the ground, crushing it under the heel of her boot. And then she was bending over him again. 

'Why?' she said. 'Why did you do it?'

Clint had no idea what she was talking about. 

'It was my time. My bullet. You stopped it. Why?'

He opened his mouth but all he could manage was a gasp. The radio hissed... crackled. She turned her head away. 

'Too slow! He doesn't have that long!'

He touched the makeshift bandage, staring at the blood that stained his fingers. He'd wanted more. He'd wanted a blaze of glory. To be a hero. But if he'd saved this woman's life then maybe... just maybe... that was enough. 

Natalie placed his bow at his side, an arrow in his hand Clint thought he felt the soft pressure of her lips, the stroke of her tongue against his and a whisper,

'Goodbye, Clint Barton.'

If he was dying... if... then there were worse ways to go.


End file.
